


Things Fall Apart

by voksen



Series: WKverse [32]
Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Episode Related, Masturbation, Other, Wangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-22
Updated: 2009-10-22
Packaged: 2017-10-28 09:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about busy airports is, after a while of watching, you lose track of the planes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Fall Apart

The thing about busy airports is, after a while of watching, you lose track of the planes.

Ken waits an hour past the time it says on the ticket that's currently tucked under his jacket, next to the fake passport, and then two hours, just to be sure. He wants to watch Yuriko leave, see her safely gone, even if he can't go with her. (He'd shown up in plenty of time to surprise her at the gates, had played out the scene in his head like a Hollywood movie, sweeping her up in his arms, kissing her, saying something wittily perfect - but even if it might have gone like that, which he knows it wouldn't have, he hadn't gone in.)

Finally, he accepts it; she's gone, out of his life; more precisely, he's out of hers, and she'll be better off for it. He starts his bike, racing a taxiing plane outwards, another fight he's bound to lose. When it's out of sight, he keeps going; not headed anywhere in particular, just driving, leaning forwards low against his bike as if he had someone to race.

When he finally pulls himself back from the hyperfocused road-and-bike-and-speed, it's late afternoon and he's missed his shift at the Koneko again, but he can't bring himself to care. Yohji probably covered for him, and right now, he's still angry enough at him that he just doesn't care about the inconvenience or whether he had to cancel a date or any of that.

Who the _fuck_ did Yohji think he was, anyway, Ken thinks bitterly. Going on like that about the blood on Ken's hands - what about the blood on his own? It wasn't as if it stopped _Yohji_ from dating girls, why should it be different for him?

That wasn't fair, though, and he knew it. Yuriko had been different than Yohji's girls; she was as pretty as any of them, sure, but she'd been so much more alive...

He couldn't help remembering her, then: that first night, when she'd pulled him in to the hotel and knocked every last thought out of his head just by coming out of the bathroom freshly showered and wrapped in a thick robe with nothing but herself underneath, the smell of soap and skin, leather and gentians, pouring out in a cloud of steam behind her. He'd seen naked girls before, in porno, in movies, but that hadn't been anything compared to the way she'd looked at him, at _him_ , and smiled. Water from her hair had trickled down her throat and faded away between her breasts as she sat on the single bed, then sprawled out, the robe opening to her thigh - Ken had _tried_ not to look, tried to be polite, but she'd been so fucking gorgeous.

Blinking furiously, he slows, glances around - and pulls up to a halt on the side of the road as he realizes he has no idea where he is. He's been driving for hours and he seems to have reached the middle of nowhere. It's been a long time since he's seen anything else: a car, a person, another bike - _God,_ but he wishes Yuriko was with him, racing or maybe riding behind him.

And the thought of it makes him swallow thickly; remembering her had already gotten him half-hard, but imagining her body pressed up behind his, breasts firm against his back, hands locked around his waist... he snaps the kickstand down, leaning forwards unconsciously, pressing his cock against the tank and feeling the rumble of the idling engine vibrate through every part of him.

She'd unbuckle his helmet, he thinks, his hands reaching up to do it before he quite realizes what he's doing - then he grits his teeth and does it anyway, letting it drop to the ground beside him and pushing his goggles up into his hair. There's no one behind him, of course, to whisper in his ear or nuzzle against the short hairs at the nape of his neck, but he can almost feel it as if she were.

Her hands would run down his chest, over his jacket - his hands echo the motion, the pressure too faint, through too much clothing, to be anything more than a tease - then settle at his waist again. "Yuriko," he breathes, caught up in the fantasy so deeply that he smells gentians on the breeze that picks up, ruffling through his hair and drying the sweat on his arms.

Always daring, she'd tell him to tease himself before she'd help more - he'd lean forwards, her body following his, and rev the engine hard, shoving his crotch against the bike again, this time deliberate.

His jeans are painfully tight by the time he lets go, killing the engine with shaking hands and leaning back. He imagines her fingers tracing over his hips, her tongue flicking at his ear (like it had before, that one night they'd shared) and ah, _yes_ , fingers smoothing down over his trapped cock. The touch is still too light, too delicate; he moans her name, begging for more, and gets it: the button of his jeans is undone and his zipper goes down, painfully slowly, tooth by tooth.

He leaves it like that for long seconds, slumped on his bike, pants undone and straining, wet-slicked boxers all that's keeping his cock from the open air. The first time he touches it, through the thin, tight fabric, his breath catches in his throat; he's never teased himself so much, never waited so long, and it feels so fucking good even though all he's doing is torturing himself more, brushing across the head, then down the shaft lightly enough that he can pretend it's her quick, delicate fingers.

It's not long, despite his determination, until he can't stand it anymore. He hooks his thumbs under his boxers and peels them down below his balls, the wet splotch of precome on the front cold against his thigh. When he finally wraps his hand around his cock, the illusion shatters: there's no mistaking his strong, blunt-fingered hand for hers, but he's too far gone to care. Other memories flash through his mind: the way she'd kissed him, the way she'd pulled him back into her apartment, then stripped off her clothes, the incredible, satin-wet heat of sliding balls-deep into her for the first time, the way her breasts had bounced as she'd pushed him back and straddled him.

He braces his feet hard against the ground, gripping the frame of his bike until his knuckles are white with the strain, breaths coming fast and hard. His hand's no real substitute for hers, let alone for fucking her, but it's there and it's good enough. There's no teasing left in him; he gives himself what he needs: long, fast, tight strokes from root to head, his hips stuttering forwards to meet his fist as the pace speeds, his thumb brushing over the slit, slicking his grip, the rough edge of it making him shudder. "Ah, _Yuriko_!" he gasps, his eyes screwing shut as pleasure so sharp with relief that it hurts slams through him, his orgasm streaking the black-and-red shell of his bike with long white lines.

After a long moment, he lets out the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding in a long, shuddering sigh that isn't quite a sob; a few minutes later, the GPz roars back to life, headed for Tokyo, for the Koneko - for Weiss.


End file.
